Spring 2001 Charles River Review: Lost and Found

Of course the whole thing was patently absurd. Heather tried to remember the pop psychology insidiously imprinted on her consciousness from the hundreds of magazines perused in doctors' offices or scanned in supermarket checkout lines. Perhaps there was something there that might explain this curious perversion of her desire. Father complex? Too obvious. Obsession with death? It had struck her recently that she didn't look as young as she used to. Well, it wasn't necrophilia at any rate. The old boy still had enough life in him to jog a few miles every day. She tried to dismiss the whole subject. Whatever it was, she'd get over it.

Strangely enough, it was only in the past few weeks that she'd begun to notice him, though when she thought back, he must have been coming here as long as she had. They both parked in front of the low stretch of breakwater, away from the part of the beach where families planted themselves on weekends and teenagers hung out after school. Gradually, almost subconsciously, she'd been taking in the details of him. The fine white hair through which she could see his pink scalp, his legs thin-skinned and sinuous, his snorts and grunts of exertion when she passed him jogging along the water's edge. And now, out of the blue, she registered the astonishing sensation of attraction. A worshipper of youth and beauty all her life, she was suddenly drawn to an old man, running as if to defy pursuant death.

She didn't try to stop herself when she imagined his flesh, soft and pale, pressed against hers, the slightly sour smell of his decaying breath against her cheek. She fantasized about the surprise and delight in his eyes at this unexpected reprise of youth she would offer him. It even occurred to her--crazy thought--to go right up to him then and there and give herself to him.

As the weeks went by, the feeling persisted. Each day she looked forward to the sight of his touchingly intent figure. Still she made no effort to establish any contact, though now he began to appear in her dreams. Not as a central figure, but more as an observer, watching her from the edge of the frame. Then one day, on her way back from the rock pools that marked the midpoint of her run, she saw him jogging toward her and she fixed her sights on him until, at the crucial moment right before passing her, he looked up and she looked into his surprisingly alive blue eyes and flashed him her most sparkling, warm-eyed smile.

"Great day," she said, without stopping. And he was surprised, and he turned to look back at her and wave in a vaguely perplexed fashion.

The next time she saw him the air was thick with humidity, and clouds the color of gunpowder smoke hung over the horizon. It was a toss up, should she go for her run or not? She held onto the wrought iron railings of the small balcony of her apartment set high on the ridge overlooking the sea and did a few warm-up stretches. The palm trees were gesticulating with increasing agitation brought on by the rising winds. She weighed the advantages of finishing the real estate assessment she was working on over getting some exercise and clearing her head. The chance of seeing the old man, no matter how improbable, decided her.

Heather pulled on her running shorts and an ancient T-shirt printed with the logo "Pirates Lifesaving Club," slid her feet into the flip-flops parked at the door, and took the elevator down to the garage where she kept her brand new, acid-green VW Beetle. Coasting down the long, steep hill, Casey Kasem shouting down the top 20, leveling out through palm-lined boulevards, the sky becoming darker and denser, she drove across the uninhabited stretch of reclaimed swampland, the no-man's land leading up to the shore. Rhomboid sheets of gray marked the areas far out to sea where the rain was already falling. Ridiculous to imagine anyone else would be there in this weather. Except perhaps a surfer or two, with no place else they'd rather be.

In the aura of an earlier generation of these golden boys Heather had been transported, erratically and precariously, through adolescence. From as far back as she could remember, as a small child with a shovel and pail digging at the water's edge, she'd been watching the surfers, bronzed and tousled, tides of salt inscribing their bodies as they undulated to the rhythms of the ocean, in a ceremony that began when the sun came up and ended only after it dropped into the inky sea.

From the impossible distance of the beach she'd observed them as they formed a magic circle, far beyond where the yellow buoys marked the nets designed to turn away cruising sharks. Seven or eight surfers would come together when the waves died down, sunlight glittering on the water, reflecting off their water-beaded bodies. And when they finally emerged from the surf, holding their boards like integral parts of their bodies and shaking their heads from side to side to get the water out of their ears as they walked, they quickly reformed their impenetrable circle, but this time around their VW vans or pick-up trucks.

Occasionally one of them would break rank and she'd be waiting in line for an ice cream cone at Dante's Cafe and look up to find herself inches away from him. But she'd never dared address one of them. After all, she was just a child and invisible. But before adolescence threw her into a state of permanent self-consciousness, she would sometimes break away from the flock of umbrellas in the sand and walk right up to where the surfers stood or leaned against the breakwater, and gaze at them with open admiration.

Perhaps it was because she came from a family of women, and women were despised in her family. Without a man, you were nothing. Ever since her father had left and they'd moved in with Granny Ada, she'd felt that they were living on the outer reaches of society, clinging to the outworn conventions that once linked them to the larger world. Her grandmother never left the house without stockings and a girdle, however extreme the heat. And when short skirts came into fashion, her still-youthful mother clung stubbornly to the knee-length floral shirtwaisters she'd worn since she'd finished high school.

Men, on the other hand, were independent entities. When it came to making one's way in the world, they could afford to thumb their noses at convention. Her father was living evidence. So, to Heather, it had always seemed that getting married was the one shot she had at personhood. The one hope she held out for belonging.

She spent hours daydreaming about the boy she would meet. It seemed natural that he should be modeled on a picture of Apollo gleaned from a book of Greek myths and legends. She'd come upon it in the young adult section of the town library, and the image had stayed with her through high school and even now that she was close to 30. And yet here she was, heading out in a thunderstorm in the hopes of catching a glimpse of a man old enough to be her grandfather.

She pulled into the parking space and sat for a while listening to number 12 on the hit parade and letting the car idle. The sea was all whitecaps. There was a solid line of black along the horizon. She couldn't remember whether the only other car there was the kind her friend (that was how she thought of him) drove.

She kicked off her sandals, turned off the ignition, and got out. Using the car as a shield from the wind, she went through her warm-up routine. Somehow she couldn't see this turning into much of a run, but she straightened up, looked casually around her, and, seeing no one, took off for the shore.

Despite the wind plucking at her hair and tugging at her thin clothes, the rhythm of her breathing settled her thoughts, so that soon she was conscious of nothing but the rough sand pressing up against her bare feet, how strong her limbs felt cutting through the resistance, and how clear and perfectly vacant her head was, liberated from the suffocating atmosphere of her apartment.

By the time she got back, she'd almost forgotten what had prompted her to come out on such an uninviting day. Leaning against her car, drinking noisily from her water bottle, she didn't notice when the door of the other car opened and a tall figure got out and began walking toward her. He was just a few feet away before she lowered the bottle and saw him standing there. At first she didn't recognize him. He looked quite different dressed in long pants and loafers and a finely woven, pale yellow shirt.

"I hope you don't mind my intruding," he began, and he had to raise his voice a bit to be heard above the wind and the waves, "but I've been wanting to tell you how impressed I am at your dedication. I mean to come out on a day like this." He gestured vaguely with one hand and then, as if remembering something, stepped forward and extended it to her. "I'm sorry, I didn't even introduce myself, my name's Raymond Johnson."

She automatically put out her own hand. "Heather McClintock," she replied, trying to take in this sudden turn of events. He'd caught her off-balance, half-naked and sweating, still breathing hard from her run.

"I love to be at the beach when there's a storm coming in from the sea," he was explaining. "I can sit here for hours. But I didn't expect anyone to be out today." His voice was surprisingly youthful, his tone reminiscent of certain boys she'd known, the ones who'd been to private boarding schools. "Look, I know it's presumptuous, but I had an idea. May I take you out to tea? We could go to the lounge at The Edward. Shirts and shoes are all they require, so if you've just got a pair of sandals we'll be fine."

This was all happening faster than she could properly absorb. But still, where was the harm in it? And perhaps a cup of tea with him would be all she needed to dispel her disquieting obsession. "Why not?" she agreed after only a moment's hesitation. "I think I even have a clean T-shirt here somewhere."

She opened the driver's side door, lowered the back of the seat, and the top half of her disappeared as she rummaged around in the rear. Raymond looked discreetly out to sea as she peeled off one T-shirt and deftly pulled on the other. "Why don't we take my car," she volunteered. "It's not exactly strolling weather."

He smiled his acquiescence and held the door for her as she retrieved her car keys from under the rubber mat. "All set then?" he asked, before closing the door firmly and going around to the passenger side. She leaned over to unlock the door and he got in, carefully folding himself into the limited space. "You OK there?" she turned to him. "Terrific," he said gamely, trying to look comfortable. She reversed out of the parking space and headed down the beach road, past Dante's, past where a couple of surfers' vans were parked, up to the esplanade where once-grand hotels were interspersed with weather-beaten holiday flats.

By now the sky had begun to leak large, fat drops, but they found a parking space right outside and dashed for cover under the awning at the entrance just as the clouds burst. They stood there watching the onslaught of tiny, gray arrows piercing the puddles that had formed almost instantaneously, enjoying the small triumph of their lucky timing.

"Shall we go in then?" he said, ushering her towards the stairway leading up to the rather grand lobby, holding his arm around her back without quite touching her.

She'd never been in this hotel before, though she was familiar with any number of mid-range hotel chains, the kinds that held conferences for real estate brokers and other salesmen. This was something entirely different, from another age when the world turned more sedately and with more formality. She felt acutely conscious of her appearance, despite the fact that Raymond was unperturbed, and the only other people around--the bellhop and a passing waiter--appeared not to notice her at all.

They entered the lounge, with its sofas upholstered in chintz and its marble and gilt tables. A few parties of elderly ladies and one or two gentlemen were scattered around the large, airy room, where picture windows lined one wall and potted palms interspersed with floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the opposite one. Heather couldn't decide whether it was discretion or short-sightedness that prevented them from staring. Raymond ushered her to an enclave with two small settees facing one another and an unobstructed view out to sea. He turned to her.

"Even better to watch the storm with a nice cup of tea and company. Will this do?" he asked, motioning her to sit down.

"It's very nice," she said. "But are you sure they're not going to mind my being so... well, so underdressed?" She laughed nervously, not willing to commit to sitting without some assurance that she'd be allowed to remain there.

"Of course not, relax, make yourself comfortable." He was clearly in command of the situation. "If anyone complains I'll talk to the manager. He's an old friend of mine." Raymond sat down opposite her and tried to flag the attention of an elderly and determinedly preoccupied waiter.

"What different worlds we live in," Heather thought. "He's perfectly at home here, and I feel as if I'm on stage. What on earth will we talk about? This was a mistake. A big mistake." But another part of her was in a state of anticipation, her senses heightened by the novelty of her situation, so close to everything familiar and yet so totally strange. "A symptom of the class gap," she said to herself. "Or maybe not. Maybe this is the just the sort of place that my father might have taken us for lunch on a Sunday, as a special treat." A vague memory stirred in her. Perhaps he actually had. After all, she was only five when he went away, and her only clear memories were of events that had been recorded in the family album. Come to think of it, she had been here before, when she was in high school and the hotel had made a brief and hopeless attempt to woo young people by opening up a discotheque called Dorian's.

She was reminded, unpleasantly, of her early encounters with the opposite sex. Her deference toward them made her inordinately reserved; she never knew how to start a conversation, and in desperation, when the silence grew unbearable, she would ask the boy what he was reading and try to talk to him about the books she'd read lately. Then, after she'd resisted his clumsy gropings and fumblings, he'd drop her off at the front door without bothering to get out of the car and she'd be relieved to know she'd never hear from him again.

"You're much too serious," a friend of her mother's admonished her. "Boys like the kind of girls who laugh and giggle. You must learn how to flirt." But she'd never mastered that unsubtle art.

At least in this situation, it wasn't necessary. The waiter was by now hovering discreetly at her side and Raymond was asking her whether she'd like milk or lemon with her tea.

"That's two teas with milk," he reiterated. "And let's have two orders of scones to go with that--with jam and cream, of course. And waiter, make sure the water's piping hot." Heather felt herself relaxing into the sofa. It felt good to be in such assured hands. She glanced up at Raymond. He was looking directly at her in a friendly, inquiring way.

"So tell me, Heather, what do you do when you're not running?"

"Me? Oh, well, nothing much, really." But the warmth and genuine interest in his expression encouraged her to continue. She told him about her job in the real estate office, that it wasn't what she'd dreamed of--just what had turned up when her hopes of going to college were dashed by her failure to get a scholarship. As he listened intently and interjected sympathetically at appropriate moments, she found herself telling him things about her family she'd never discussed with anyone else. In fact, he put her so completely at ease that it was some time before she realized that he'd hardly spoken at all.

"And you, what about you?" she finally asked. "Now you know everything about me but I'm still completely in the dark about you."

"Where shall I begin?" he smiled. "I've been around such a long time."

"Are you married?" It had suddenly struck her that he might be.

"I was."

"So, you live alone?"

"For the past ten years."

"Don't you get lonely then?"

"Not any more."

"I would like to learn how never to be lonely." She said the words slowly, as if trying out the idea for the first time.

"I can't believe that would be a problem for a young woman as bright and attractive as you are," he offered chivalrously, but there was no flirtatiousness in his manner.

"So what's the secret?"

"Ah. If I could only tell you, we could market it and retire to the South of France."

He smiled thoughtfully. "But seriously, Heather, being alone is not the same as being lonely. I've been lonely most of my life and that was when I had a wife and family. Loneliness isn't a physical condition, it's a state of mind."

"If you're not lonely, why did you come down to the beach today? Why did you come up to me and ask me to tea?"

"Well, that's another story. Like I said, I love to be here to watch the storms roll in." He paused and looked out the window with a faraway expression that made him seem suddenly vulnerable. "The sea has a special significance for me," he continued. "When it's all churned up like this it reminds me of everything I've lost, and also everything I've managed to salvage. But that's not what you want to hear." He turned toward her, "Heather, let me ask you this, why did you agree to have a cup of tea with me? After all, anyone could understand the desire of an old man for a young woman's company--King Solomon and all that--but you? Now, that's a more interesting question."

Heather felt herself blushing. She consciously relaxed her hands and leaned back into the sofa. It was OK. This felt OK.

"Well, you're going to think me odd, but actually, over the past few weeks, I've developed quite a crush on you." He looked at her with an inquiring smile. "I know we don't even know one another, but I've had this really strong feeling about you and it just won't go away." Well, there it was, on the table. She couldn't believe she'd said it. It was up to him now to decide what to do with it.

"That's very flattering, Heather. I'm honored." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands together with his fingertips touching. "I have a daughter about your age you know. Let me guess. You were born in '72?" She nodded. "You're the age my daughter would have been, but I lost my daughter a long time ago."

"What happened?"

"I left."

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't know any better. I was desperate. I was selfish." He hung his head and looked up at her. "I lived to regret it."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Heather got up and went and sat next to Raymond and took his hand in both of hers. And they remained there for some time, until the waiter came, bearing his tray like a victory, and skillfully discharged its elaborate contents upon the gilt and marble table in front of them.